


Prisoners of War.

by soriksorik



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, France (Country), Germany, Multi, Other, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 11:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19393624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soriksorik/pseuds/soriksorik
Summary: A German family has to adapt to their new life in a Nazi-Occupied France.DISCLAIMER: This version does and will depict the events from, what I imagine, as the German point of view.





	Prisoners of War.

**12th May 1940**

“Mama. Mama,” cried a small female voice, accompanied by the pattering of tiny feet on the rocky pathway. “The post.”

The woman to whom the post was addressed, as well as the screaming, was sitting in the drawing room of the country house, a book opened in her lap. She had been reading calmly until those destructive sounds had broken her peace, flowing in through the slightly opened window with the gentle spring breeze. Now, she could hear them nearing, the soles of their feet leaving light, but audible, tapping sounds as they ran over the wooden floor. At last, the door was opened and three young children ran inside, one of them holding a letter.

“Mama,” she said, breathless, “the post.”

“How many times have I said it? No running in the house,” the woman replied calmly before she rose, moving towards the children and carefully taking the letter that was being stretched out towards her.

Turning over the envelope, she felt a small smile creeping to her lips as she read the name of the sender.

“Is it from Father?” Inquired one of the other children, a boy, and the woman could spy him leaning over to catch the writing on the envelope.

She nodded. The children sighed in relief, although she doubted all of them understood exactly why it was important for their father to keep writing letters.

Gustaf understood, she knew. He was old enough to know that War was a lot more dangerous than she let on. He knew that at any moment, his father could be killed and they could be left alone in this world, to fend for themselves. Gisela and Ernst did not really understand why their father was away. All they knew is that he wasn’t home because he was fighting bad men in a different country, to ensure their safety and that of all the other Germans. However, in full honesty, the woman was not sure what it was that her husband was fighting for and if it was even worth it.

“Well, what does it say?” Asked the other boy, raising an eyebrow as he moved towards his mother.

The woman shook her head, “go wash up and I will tell you what it says over supper.”

The children, clearly disappointed with her response, turned around and skipped out of the room and down the corridor, to do as instructed. Their mother sat down in her previous seat and allowed her fingers to worry over the folding of the envelope, tracing where she thought  _ his _ fingers could have traced.

Her name was Maite von Schultz, by birth, and von Lehmann, by marriage. She had bright blonde hair that fell down her back in a beautiful waterfall of gold; clear blue eyes that seemed to stare into your soul; and a pink mouth that illuminated her face when she smiled. Her husband, Lieutenant Wolfgang von Lehmann, was fighting in this war to make their Homeland ‘Great’. She knew he didn’t believe in it, but that did not mean he could stay home with her.

Wolfgang was from a respected military family. He had been born and raised to embrace the military ambitions of his country and its leaders. He had been born to, alongside his brothers, rise to the highest ranks of the German military.

Maite opened the letter, carefully unsticking the ends of the envelope before she removed the paper that held the writing on it. Unfolding it, she was met with the familiar curve of her husband’s handwriting: a little messy, a little smudged, and a little rushed.

> _ Meine Liebe _ ,
> 
> Words cannot describe how much I miss you and the children. Every moment  without you by my side is another moment in which I would rather be dead.  That way, I can watch over you from above, ensure you are always safe and sound, happy and free.
> 
> I lost four of my most able men today. They were slaughtered like animals on the French border. I comfort myself with the knowledge that their deaths were not in vain. Although the French continue to resist, it is easy to notice that their strengths are starting to deplete and that soon, we will no longer need to fight as we advance further into their territory. Although officially, the French Government has given up their territory —as you may have already heard , it is easy to see that the people have not. A part of me understands them. I suppose that, had our places been reversed, I, too, would fight until my dying breath to ensure the safety of my Motherland and my loved ones. In a way, that is exactly what I am doing — or what we are told that we are doing — as I fight here.
> 
> I hope you are well and that we may see each other soon,  _ Liebling _ .
> 
> Take care.
> 
> With Love,
> 
> Your Husband.

Maite read the letter time and time again, almost drilling holes in the thin paper with her eyes. She drank in every letter, every curve of the pen. The words felt heavy and unfinished. He had been trying to say something, she knew, but putting it into words seemed impossible. She would have given anything to be with him right now and to fight out exactly what it was that troubled him.

Rising from her seat once she was satisfied with the knowledge that, no matter how many times she read the letter — she could not get anything new out of it, Maite moved to fold the paper carefully, placing it back into the envelope before she carefully put it away. It would now rest in a small wooden box, a wedding present from her mother, and one of the few material things that she cherished. Said box held every single letter her husband had written her. She could argue that it was her most prized possession. To her, it held the same sentimental value an expensive piece of jewelry may hold for one of the other military wives she called her friends.

She did not need much to be happy, just a roof over the head, some food on the table, and her family were enough.

Just them. Safe and sound, happy and free.


End file.
